


Lycanthopy

by My_Beating_Hart



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gen Work, Healing, Introspection, Werewolf Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erandur watched in horrified fascination as Theron’s transformation completed and in his place a mostly humanoid creature the size of a bear lurched in the snow, clouds of steam billowing from it’s nose and mouth.<br/>A single word came to his mind, one he’d heard from superstitious Nords that were too drunk to be disgusted by him.<br/><i>Lycanthropy.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lycanthopy

Erandur swore under his breath as he brought his mace up to intercept his opponent’s sword, and the flames dancing between the fingers of his other hand arched out in a spray that lit up the snow banks around them and made the bandit howl in pain as his leather armour burned.

He could hear Theron grunt in pain somewhere behind him, but wish as he might he couldn’t spare the time or magicka to cast healing magic on the archer when they were both in such close combat. Not unless he wanted a sword in his belly.

He glanced back, casting the Redguard a worried look. Theron was firing arrow after arrow into his own enemy’s bared chest and arms, but he was forced to constantly back away out of range of a heavy mace. His success at staying out of close combat range was mixed at best; his leather armour was littered with scrapes and cuts, some of which had cut through the armour to the vulnerable skin beneath, and in the erratic light from his spells coupled with the waning daylight, Erandur couldn’t tell how heavily the ranger was bleeding, but he could see how red the snow around Theron was becoming.

A desperate concern fuelled Erandur as he drew on his inner reserves of strength. Once again, flames shot out of his hand, and when the bandit was distracted by the pain of his very skin burning, the Dunmer put his weight behind the next blow from his mace. The frost enchantment hissed as it made contact and sent the bandit staggering. Erandur raised the mace up again, and the weapon connected with the side of the other man’s head. There was a crunch of bone cracking and he crumpled to the ground, eyes glazing over at the same time as Erandur heard a sickening cry of pain behind him.

Without wasting a breath Erandur turned as quickly as his age allowed him to, the magicka in his hand swirling from flames to the bright golden light of a healing spell. A prayer to Mara was  already steam hissing from between his lips into the freezing air.

It took him a second to pick out Theron’s lean form in the encroaching darkness, but he was alarmed to see that the archer had fallen, bow on the ground beside his prone form. What was more alarming was that he appeared to have shrugged off his quiver and pack, for some reason. Erandur’s gaze snapped back to the more pressing concern - the bandit that was raising his mace for the killing blow.

The chill that shot through the watching Dunmer was at odds with the blast of fire he directed at the Nord. That was enough to stagger the bandit as he hurried to extinguish the flames, give them all a second to react.

Erandur was surprised when Theron screamed in pain again, and the archer’s dark form radiated tension as he lay in the snow, back arched like a fully drawn bow. The bandit hesitated as well, and then lowered his mace in dawning realisation as Theron began to _change_.

The Redguard’s face transformed first, his nose and mouth stretching into a muzzle, his ears shifting and becoming pointed. Black fur sprouted and claws grew, muscles swelled as he tried to undo his armour in time to save it from becoming ruined scraps of leather. Erandur winced as he heard the definitive cracking of bone, but kept watching in horrified fascination as Theron’s transformation completed and in his place a mostly humanoid creature the size of a bear lurched in the snow, clouds of steam billowing from it’s nose and mouth. A single word came to his mind, one he’d heard from superstitious Nords that were too drunk to be disgusted by him.

 _Lycanthropy_.

When the werewolf opened it’s eyes, they weren’t Theron’s steel-grey irises, but a bestial yellow. When the werewolf unsteadily staggered to it’s lupine feet, broad chest and shoulders heaving with every breath it took, it’s clawed hands twitched. It’s lips drew back to expose a maw that would put a sabrecat to shame, and the low growl that rumbled forth was like hearing distant thunder; Erandur could feel it through the soles of his feet.

He wasn’t surprised in the slightest when the beast’s attention fixed on the bandit standing directly in front of it, and then it lunged without another sound. The bandit screamed as he was pushed effortlessly down into a snowdrift by the sudden weight barrelling into him, but the responding animalistic snarls drowned out the point where the screams died away and were replaced by the wet sound of rending flesh and the snapping of jaws.

Erandur swallowed bile, unable to look away from the hunched over, _feeding_ creature that had just replaced the bright young Redguard man he’d followed for so many months, shock and cold making him numb. Had Theron always been a werewolf? He’d heard rumours about the creatures - supposedly they lived in the wilderness of Whiterun hold and perhaps as far north as the marshes by the Waking Sea. In all of his years, he’d never expected to see one. Certainly not this close up. And _certainly_ not one that lurked under the skin of a man who had helped him find peace in a forgotten tower overlooking Dawnstar.

The Dunmer slowly lowered his mace, and the undefined spell in his hand faded away gently, leaving them in the dusk and snow stained red with blood. He watched as the lupine head lifted up to scent the air, and braced himself for death if the beast didn’t share Theron’s memories. At least it would be swift, but agonising.

One yellow eye caught his, and with a low growl the werewolf was suddenly on his feet and facing him, head lowered and teeth bared. Blood dripped from his muzzle and dagger-like claws to the snow in front of his clawed feet. It took Erandur a moment to realise that very little of the blood on snow was from the now thoroughly dead bandit.

The injuries Theron had sustained in human form clearly didn’t heal when he became a werewolf; now there was no armour to obscure his body, Erandur could pick out at least three large gashes that bled freely. Two to one arm, and the third a long diagonal line across the werewolf’s stomach. There were probably several dozen smaller ones that he couldn’t see.

“Easy, hunter,” Erandur murmured, raising his hands to show he was unarmed and hoping that the werewolf would recognise the sobriquet. “I am no threat.” After a moment, he broke eye contact with the werewolf - some random fact Theron had once told him around the campfire about wolves and dominance. Would it be the same for werewolves? Mara, would the werewolf know how to speak? Was it capable? Erandur frowned to himself as his gaze flicked over the werewolf. No, this was Theron, not some mindless beast. He hoped.

The werewolf growled again, another rumble that Erandur could feel in his aged bones. He sighed in response.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much of a meal, hunter. What little meat there is on my bones would be rather tough to chew.” He offered apologetically, looking closer at the bleeding wounds. The werewolf was tense and hunched over, and Erandur honestly wasn’t sure how to read such body language when there was no obvious facial expression to go with it. Was he protecting whatever was left of his kill? Was he still deciding if an elderly Dunmer priest was a threat that needed removing? Or was he on edge because he was in pain?

Apparently, it seemed to be the latter. Erandur remained still, making no move either toward the werewolf or away - and he wasn’t going to be foolish enough to turn his back on such an intimidating predator, no matter if Theron was somewhere in there or not. Seconds ticked by, but as Erandur shivered with the growing chill of standing calf-deep in a snow drift it felt like minutes. The werewolf stopped showing it’s teeth, and instead began to nose at the cuts on it’s arm with the odd growl of what Erandur could only presume was pain. A heavy tongue flicked out to lap at blood-matted fur.

“Theron, I can help.”

One ear flicked towards him, and the werewolf paused with it’s tongue sticking out to fix him with a jarringly sharp predator’s gaze. That gaze, at least, was something he recognised from Theron. The man used dark warpaint around his eyes to better contrast his unusually-coloured irises, and coupled with his usual stoic expression it proved to make even a neutral gaze seem hostile when they bored into someone else. Even as a werewolf, the gaze was undeniably Theron’s.  “It’s me, hunter. Let me use healing magic, or you might bleed out before… Mara, how long will it take you to turn back? All night?”

Erandur worried his bottom lip between his teeth at the prospect. He’d never thought he’d have to read up on Nordic folklore, so for all the rumours about howling at night and cattle torn apart that _couldn’t_ have been the work of a wolf pack or two, werewolves were a rather vague entity to him. And now here one stood barely ten feet away from him.

The werewolf huffed noncommittally at him, creating a brief cloud of steam, and then returned to licking his wounds. Just a tongue wouldn’t be good enough to heal them.

“Theron,” Erandur tried, snow crunching underfoot as he took a step forwards. The werewolf’s head whipped forwards to pin him with another stare and growl. More blood dripped from the cut on his stomach, and probably the others Erandur assumed he couldn’t see in the shadows and black fur. “Hunter, you know me.”

They stared at each other for several more seconds, the werewolf unblinking. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he shifted his weight and turned, spraying snow as he dropped to all fours and bolted into the night like a spooked deer.

Erandur sighed deeply, raising his gaze to the heavens imploringly.

“Mara give me strength.”

He could hardly set up camp here for the night and hope Theron would return in one form or another. Chances were he’d only get set upon by bandits or wild animals drawn by the campfire or smell of blood, and without Theron to back him up when his magicka reserves were exhausted, those chances of him getting out unscathed were greatly lessened.

There was no way of telling how far Theron could or would travel in his werewolf form, especially when injured. It was doubtful he would stick to the roads or head for civilisation. Most likely, he was looking for somewhere secluded to lick his wounds in privacy. But if he ran into another bandit group in his weakened state… Erandur’s weathered hands tightened into fists as something he dared acknowledge as protectiveness for his travelling companion welled in his chest.

The mage frowned at the mutilated corpse lying half-buried by the snow.

“You _had_ to hurt him, didn’t you?”

 _And_ , the guilty pang in his stomach spoke up, _you had to fail at healing Theron when he needed it, and he became a werewolf and ran. You_ had _to fail even him, didn’t you?_ Erandur closed his eyes, pushing away that insidious little voice. He’d heard it enough in the years of solitude after Vaermina’s cult.

Resignedly, Erandur took out a torch and lit it with a flick of his wrist. It was easy enough to pick up Theron’s discarded items from the snow - they both travelled light out of habit; himself a priest, Theron a nomadic hunter, unless they’d just cleared out some form of cave or dungeon. What Theron imagined he would do with so many potatoes they inevitably found in a barrel somewhere always confused Erandur, but right now he was simply glad of the definitive lack of potatoes in the ranger’s pack.

“Hunter, you had best not have gone too far for these old bones.” Erandur muttered to himself as he picked up his walking staff from where he’d dropped it in the snow and began searching for some kind of trail. Moving warmed him, and it didn’t take long for him to find the signs of a werewolf on the run - the deep snow disturbed by footprints that were somewhere between man and beast was a clear enough trail even if there hadn’t also been bloodstains. When the snow began to grow sparser as they moved south towards Whiterun, back on the progress they’d made today, Erandur found himself relying on the slowly increasing trail of blood, and the occasional mauled deer carcass.

The mage hummed a tune to himself as he walked to avoid the oppressive silence, eyes on the ground and ears listening for any movement around him. So… Theron was a werewolf. He’d never made any mention of it before, never so much as a hint of it. He must have been a werewolf for long enough to know how to hide it, and given how many months it had been since they’d cleansed Dawnstar of Daedra corruption and travelled together constantly since, that was a long time indeed.

Erandur rubbed at his bearded chin as he contemplated what he knew of Theron and walked steadily on. The lights of Whiterun glowed in the distance invitingly, but he ignored them in favour of going further south.

The Redguard made his home somewhere in the wilds to the west of Whiterun, but Erandur had only seen the cabin occasionally; the walk to it was long and over rough ground, and ultimately too wearying for him. More often, he was left to stay warm and dry (figuratively speaking, but Whiterun was a far deal warmer and drier than Dawnstar) in the Bannered Mare for a night while Theron made the trek out to drop off and pick up whatever supplies he needed.

It was an arrangement that suited them both just fine; he could sell whatever spoils they’d picked up on their travels, ignore filthy looks from the local Nords and the curious stares of children who’d never seen either a Dunmer or a priest of Mara before, and Theron didn’t have to pace himself to a far older man’s stride and health, despite how he repeatedly said it didn’t bother him. A polite, decent lad with a kind heart - a true rarity in this frozen land of thick-headed Nords.

As far as Erandur knew, before Theron had turned up in Dawnstar he had roamed the wilds of southern Skyrim as a hunter, ranger and occasional bounty hunter for the Companions by himself. Not even fellow hunters accompanied him. And yet when the Skull of Vaermina had been banished, he had wanted company on the road south. Erandur smiled grimly to himself as he began to follow the blood trail and carcasses of anything unfortunate enough to get in the werewolf’s way up a gentle slope in the foothills of the mountain range that housed the Throat of the World. They both knew loneliness and self-imposed solitude. Theron had recognised a kindred spirit on that day.

Theron had been alone since he arrived in Skyrim - at least, that was what Erandur presumed. Theron was not a man to talk of family, so they were either over the border somewhere or dead. So… Had he become a werewolf to better protect himself out in the wilds from a multitude of threats, or was that the reason why he enjoyed the wilds and solitude in the first place? So he could run and hunt in whatever form he wished, without the worry of a spooked or horrified companion running him through with a sword or blasting him with a spell?

Erandur found his thoughts drawing to a halt when he saw the trail of blood lead into a small cave. Judging from the bones scattered around the entrance, it was already inhabited. The mage swallowed, wondering if the bones were from Theron’s past kills as a werewolf or from something more mundane like a cave bear. He wasn’t sure which he would have preferred to see.

“Hunter?” He called as he stood before the cave entrance, not daring to step inside and risk surprising the werewolf if Theron was still in that form. Silence answered him, to his disappointment. Yet he’d followed the blood trail all night and there was no sign of it leaving the cave, so unless it had a second opening elsewhere, this was where Theron _had_ to be. Steeling his nerve, Erandur stepped into the cave.

What hit him first as he walked down the narrow corridor was the smell. Fresh, metallic blood and pungent wolf, which was to be expected. Underneath it, dirt and that particular cold, gritty smell of rock. Nothing too unpleasant, thankfully.

The torchlight flickered over the narrow rock walls for a few paces more, and then Erandur found himself in the cave proper. Like some of Skyrim’s hidden gems, the cave was deceptively spacious, with cracks in the ceiling and walls providing enough light in some patches for plants to grow. Right now, of course, the limited moonlight was dim enough that Erandur didn't put out his torch.

He became aware of a furred, hunched form at the other end of the cave, and relaxed only slightly when he saw it was Theron rather than a sleeping bear. Two yellow eyes watched him, their pupils glowing an eerie green in the reflected torchlight. He remained still, merely watching the Dunmer.

“ _Now_ will you let me heal you? I think I've earned that, after following you for half of the night across the plains.” Erandur spoke wearily, scanning what he could see of Theron’s altered body for the injuries as he rested his walking staff against his shoulder to free one hand. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, Mara be praised, but the open wounds and the fur around them still glistened wetly.

The werewolf blinked at him slowly and then got to his feet, claws gouging furrows into the dirt. Erandur straightened up and kept his head held high as the werewolf darted towards him with a speed that belied his massive form, determined not to show any weakness. His free hand curled into a loose fist behind his back, magicka dancing on his fingertips _just in case_.

The werewolf skidded to a halt once he was in the mage’s personal space, and Erandur tried not to dwell on how close that large set of teeth was to his face. He could feel every huff of warm breath, too, and if he wanted to he probably could have reached out and touched one muscled bicep.

Erandur barely had time to wonder what Theron was thinking - if he was capable of higher thought like this, of course - before the werewolf’s jaws parted to reveal the rows of heavy teeth that glinted in the torchlight and the glistening pink of his mouth.

The roar from this close felt like it shook the cave, a raw and primal display that sent another chill through Erandur, but he resisted the instinctive urge to run away from the monster and never return. Even though the creature before him was covered in blood that wasn’t just his own and could easily break every bone in his body with a well-placed swipe of his large hands, Theron was in there somewhere. The werewolf had had the chance to attack him earlier several times if he had genuinely considered an elderly mage a threat. This… This was just him showing off. It was _Theron_ , and he knew that Theron wouldn’t hurt him.

Erandur blinked, and carefully wiped away a few drops of spittle that had landed on his face as he took a step back. The werewolf was staring at him unblinkingly, ears pricked. Waiting for his reaction.

“My, my, what big teeth you have.” He replied flatly. “Are you done, hunter?”

The werewolf lifted his head up in surprise as his ears twitched back and his shoulders fell. He radiated disappointment, and Erandur wasn’t surprised when he turned away with a low grumble of dissatisfaction and stalked back to where he’d been resting earlier, his tail swishing irritably  - Mara, he had a _tail_. Smiling to himself, the Dunmer followed at a respectful distance.

Theron watched silently as Erandur carefully lowered himself to the floor nearby, glad of the chance to finally sit down after a day and half a night of walking. His robe would be even dirtier than it already was as he sat in the dirt with his back against a grimy cave wall, but that was a given of life on the road.

“I have your things.” The mage offered in the ensuing silence, remembering the extra equipment he carried and gladly removing it to set it on a nearby ledge of rock. The werewolf’s gaze followed his hands, and then lowered his head to sniff curiously at the discarded armour, nosing at the pack and quiver until the arrows within rattled.

“So,” Erandur began, looking again at the visible wounds he could see as the werewolf padded around him and sank heavily to lie in the dirt a few feet away, weight resting on his elbows and his head raised alertly as he faced the narrow corridor leading out of the cave. There was no trace of blood that he could pick out in the torchlight, but some of the cuts looked deeper than he’d first thought, particularly the one on Theron’s stomach that was now pressed against the uneven ground. That couldn’t have been comfortable. “Can I heal you yet, or will you run off again?” He asked dryly. Did werewolves make more than one den? Mara, as soon as they were back in Whiterun he needed to buy every book about werewolves that he could find. And once Theron was back in his human form, there were several dozen explanations needed. Perhaps he’d lecture or two thrown in for variety between questions.

Theron’s nearest ear flicked towards him even as his yellow gaze remained fixed on a spot on the cave wall near the entrance, apparently disinterested.

“Hunter...” Erandur warned, even his considerable patience starting to wear thin. It had been a long night for them both, but he wouldn’t sleep until he was certain Theron was fully healed, no matter which form it was in.

Theron looked at him then, ears going back sheepishly at the tone to his voice. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up into a doglike sitting position and begrudgingly stuck his injured arm out towards Erandur, the long claws slashing at empty air.

“Don’t sulk.” Erandur chided as he moved close enough to work on the arm, brushing aside as much of the fur and dirt as he could to expose the largest wound. With one hand keeping Theron’s arm in place and several fights on the road having exhausted him, he had to work slowly. At the first glow of healing magic, Theron growled halfheartedly but remained unmoving as the restoration spell did it’s job and knitted muscle and skin together.

Erandur was silent as he focused his attention on the other cuts - several smaller ones he hadn’t seen, and the deeper gash across Theron’s stomach.

“That one might scar.” He commented once he was done, standing up to stretch out his legs from a long time spent sitting. The cave was colder than he’d thought it was, so it was a simple enough matter to gather together some firewood and tinder from the plants that grew in the cave and light them with a simple fire spell.

He didn’t have the energy to set up a cooking pot this late for stew, so he dug out his rations instead for a cold but filling meal as the fire grew and warmed the cave. Theron sniffed in his direction but seemed disinterested in the dry meat when some was offered.

“I suppose you’ve eaten already,” Erandur noted as he recalled the mauled bandit and local wildlife. Theron huffed in agreement as he settled closer to the fire, a small mountain of black fur with claws at either end.

“You should have told me about this sooner, you know.” The Dunmer muttered, a spark of irritation finally making itself known as he looked over at Theron stretched out in front of the fire. “That you were… Capable of this. I can think of at least _four_ fights this month where it would have come in useful. Or at the very least, you could have told me so I didn’t have the shock of my life earlier. And then you went running off when you know I wouldn’t hurt you...”

Theron had been staring at him, ears pricked as he no doubt listened intently, but then he surprised Erandur by lowering his head to the floor and letting out a quiet whine, exactly like a scolded dog looking for forgiveness. Erandur frowned at him, but couldn’t find it in himself to continue the lecture.

They’d travelled together for a long time, there had been plenty of opportunities for Theron to tell him, and yet he hadn’t. Probably, he was too afraid of his friend’s reaction - horror, disgust, outrage, pity for the transformed creature that was more beast than man, a monster that children were warned about to scare them to sleep and men boasted around the campfire about shooting an arrow in one from a safe distance. Perhaps he’d expected Erandur to turn on him as if he’d suddenly forgot all the months they’d spent together and let his fear rule him.

No, Erandur had spent too long letting his fears and guilt be obstacles in his life. Theron had helped him overcome them and even offered a place by his side on the endless roads of Skyrim. The least he could do was be there for Theron with patience and Mara’s guidance. Mara’s love and forgiveness knew no bounds. He knew that firsthand.

The elderly mage shook his head as he dug out his bedroll for the night, glad of a night spent in a warm cave that they hadn’t had to clear out first. He dug under his robe for his amulet of Mara where it lay warm against his chest, holding it and letting his eyes fall closed as he began his nightly prayers and basked in Her warming love, thanking her for keeping an eye on them both during the bizarre turn of events on this night.

The sound of movement made him crack one eye open to see Theron sneaking towards where he sat on his bedroll. Erandur sighed, offering a quick apology to Mara for the interruption.

“Yes?”

Theron brought one clawed hand up to pat his own head clumsily, thoroughly confusing the watching mage until he realised there was another patch of fur that was matted with blood. He’d noticed it before, but had thought the blood was from a kill, not a wound he’d overlooked.

“My apologies, hunter,” He added as he beckoned the werewolf closer. “Let me take a look.” Theron hesitated, and then slowly and carefully moved even closer, as if he was expecting to be pushed away, until his head rested heavily across Erandur’s legs, massive body stretched out in the dirt to one side. Aware of the proximity of those claws and teeth to his body, Erandur was careful as he parted the bloodstained fur to find the cut responsible. His fingers glowed with healing magic, and this time he felt Theron’s answering rumble rather than heard it.

The fact it continued past the outpouring of magicka began to make Erandur concerned until he realised there was a steady rhythm to the muted thunder as it settled in his bones. Theron’s eyes were closed as he lay there on his stomach, hands folded carefully under his chest, and he seemed to be _purring_ \- or, a least, growling in a way similar to purring, with no warning behind it. Like a content Khajiit. Erandur rested his hand on top of Theron’s head, surprised.

Theron twitched his ears at the contact but lifted his head up searchingly until Erandur took the hint and began hesitantly scratching behind one ear. The satisfied rumbling increased, and Erandur soon grew used enough to the added strangeness of the situation to resume his prayers to Mara, lips moving but not giving voice to them.

Once he’d finished, he wondered how long it would take Theron to return to his human form as he stared into the fire and absently continued scratching behind one lupine ear, Theron’s long tail sweeping dirt and leaf litter from side to side. Presumably not until morning, but if it persisted, well… They would simply have to stay off the roads and away from Whiterun for a little longer.

“Shift over.” Erandur eventually broke the content silence that had settled over them both, removing his hand and drawing his legs up until Theron sat up and let him get into his bedroll. The werewolf huffed in disappointment, and then paced around the campfire until he was on Erandur’s other side, but out of arm’s reach and with his broad back to his companion. The mage couldn’t help a smile when he realised Theron had settled down for the night between him and the cave entrance. Woe betide anything that came into this cave while they slept; he doubted even the most hardened hunter would be expecting to stumble across a werewolf and a Dunmer mage.

Erandur let his eyes fall closed as he stretched out under his furs, listening to the crackle of the fire and the occasional grumble from Theron until the darkness of a dreamless sleep claimed him, reassured that they were both safe for another night.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first ever Skyrim fanfic, even though I've played the game for years. Yay. Concrit on this would be greatly appreciated!  
> The DB, Theron, is more or less based on my Dragon Age Warden, who I have written... A considerable amount about.  
> I'm not sure if I'll write more about this situation, maybe a second chapter, or anything else set in Skyrim rather than Dragon Age. I just wanted to get this story idea that was very loosely based on ingame events out of my head.


End file.
